Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street by Sally Spencer Page B

had seen him.
    â€˜There’s a storm brewing,’ he called out. ‘I can feel it in the air. An hour from now, it’ll be raining cats and dogs.’
    â€˜Thank you for the weather forecast, sir,’ Meade said, with barely concealed animosity.
    â€˜Just what is it that bothers you about me, Sergeant?’ Flynn asked, as if he were genuinely curious.
    â€˜Nothing, sir,’ Meade replied.
    â€˜Is it the fact I’ve been sitting here on my big fat Irish arse for the last hour?’ Flynn wondered.
    â€˜Frankly, sir, yes,’ Meade admitted.
    â€˜And what would you have preferred me to do? Walk behind you like a conjuror’s assistant, hoping you’d find some menial – meaningless – task to keep me busy? Or walk ahead of you, with a swagger to my step, as if this case hadn’t been snatched out of my grasp and given to two fellers who know nothing about Coney Island or the people who live here?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t been fair with you,’ Meade said contritely. ‘I know that if I’d had a case taken away from me—’
    â€˜Besides, you can learn a great deal by just sitting and looking,’ Flynn interrupted him. ‘I know, for example, that the two ladies of the house – Mr George’s wife and Mr Harold’s wife – are on their way here, because I’ve seen their personal maids arrive with their luggage. I know that one of the maids employed in the kitchen not only steals food, but is stupid enough to do it while I’m here. And I know that Mr Fanshawe isn’t attending to his duties at the moment, because I saw him slip into the woods half an hour ago.’
    â€˜You saw what !’ Blackstone exploded.
    Their first instinct was to run towards the woods, and that – without even consulting each other – was exactly what they did. But even as they approached the closest trees, Blackstone was beginning to realize that instinct was not enough – that what they needed was a plan.
    â€˜Wait a minute, Alex,’ he called out to the younger man, who had already pulled ahead of him by several yards.
    Meade came to skidding halt which tore up the immaculate lawn, and waited for his partner to catch up.
    â€˜This may be just what Fanshawe wanted us to do,’ Blackstone said. ‘He may have planned all along for us to blunder around in the woods looking for him, when, in fact, he was already gone.’
    â€˜True,’ Meade agreed. ‘But what do we lose by looking anyway?’
    He was right, Blackstone thought. It was possible that, instead of running, Fanshawe had retreated into the woods like a wounded bear, and that they’d find him huddled up pitifully at the base of a tree.
    The sudden rumbling sound overhead made Blackstone look up.
    Flynn had been wrong about the timing of the coming storm, he thought. The heavy clouds, picked up by a vigorous wind, had advanced from the sea with the speed of a crack cavalry division, and were now engaged in the work of darkening the sky above them.
    â€˜We’ll split up,’ he decided. ‘You skirt around the left side of the wood, and I’ll do the same to the right. Then we’ll both head towards the middle.’
    There was more thunder above them, and a bolt of lightning seared its way across the sky.
    Meade grinned. ‘Don’t they say the worst place to be in a thunderstorm is in a wood?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes, I believe they do,’ Blackstone said.
    And then they both set off in their search for Fanshawe the butler.
    The rain, which the thunder and lightning had promised, came two or three minutes later. At first, only a few drops managed to find their way through the dense foliage overhead. Then, as the drenching con-tinued, the smaller branches bent under the weight of the downpour, and tiny waterfalls trickled their way down to the floor of the wood.
    Blackstone searched slowly and